The Warden Threat
~*~
Despite Kwestor’s suggestion to the contrary, Donald did stay up late reading over the pamphlet given to him by the gatekeeper. He also poured over the ancient scroll, which once provided linings for several pairs of cheap shoes, as well as the translation he did of it back in Barter’s Forge. Hours passed before he felt satisfied that he had memorized the spell to wake the Warden, and he finally settled in bed. Despite this, he woke early the next day before either of his traveling companions, anxious to be going.
He lit the oil lamp, performed his morning ablutions, and got dressed in his least soiled set of clothes, making a mental note to have laundry tended to as soon as possible. Little things like this should not continue to complicate life when things that were far more important required his attention. In a couple hours, he would use everything he had learned in a potentially risky attempt to save his father’s kingdom, and he found it necessary to consider taking care of the laundry. For some reason, such things never seemed to be mentioned in the heroic epics, and he never gave them a second thought before. At home, servants took care of such trivialities. He never gave much consideration to what happened to dirty clothes or how they returned cleaned and folded in his wardrobe chest. These things just happened, like a simple fact of nature. Clean clothes were a given—there—back at home—so long as you did not think about it much. Such excuses from cognition did not apply away from the castle, and he found himself gaining a greater appreciation for all of the little services discreetly provided by people who he barely knew even existed before.
A chill draft sneaked through the window frame, but Donald saw no sign yet of the approaching sunrise. He looked to the two other beds. Muce seemed to still be sound asleep, curled comfortably under his blanket, and Kwestor rested motionless on his back, his feet, clad in gray woolen socks with droopy toes protruding off the end of his bed.
Donald hesitated to disturb his roommates, but it could not be helped. According to the scroll, he needed to recite the spell at dawn.
“Time to get up, gentlemen,” he said none too loudly. He did not want to disturb anyone in the nearby rooms.
Kwestor opened his eyes immediately and eased himself into a sitting position. “I’m up,” he droned. “I’ve been awake. You can’t really get comfortable on one of these things. You’d think they’d have at least one room with normal sized beds, but no. Nobody cares about customer service anymore.”
He got to his feet and jostled the sleeping form of the notso. “Come on, bumpkin. Get up. His royal highness has a kingdom to save.”
“Mmph,” mumbled Muce.
The scout pulled the blanket off the sleeping young man. “You may as well get up now before he makes it a royal command.”
“Is it morning already?”
“Technically.”
“Is breakfast ready?” Muce dragged himself to a sitting position and started to pull on his boots.
“We won’t have time for that,” Donald said. I want to make sure we get to the Warden well before first light.”
“But—,” the young fighter began, his lower lip near trembling.
“Oh come now. You had a big dinner. You can’t possibly be all that hungry.”
“But breakfast is—”
“When we’re done, you can have a nice big lunch.”
“But it’s the most important meal—”
“No buts now. Just get yourself ready.”
Shortly thereafter, the three men left the inn and made their way on the wide paved road toward the site of the Warden. They left most of their gear in their room, but the prince grasped the stitched together vellum scroll and his translation tightly in his hand along with a small cloth bag.
“We could have waited a little while,” complained Muce. “There were going to be sausages today. Good ones. I could smell them cooking.” Clouds of vapor accompanied the young notso’s words.
Donald continued to march purposefully through the crisp morning air by the light of the stars. “Maybe there will be some left when we get back.”
“That would be good. I should be really hungry by then,” Muce said without a hint of sarcasm.
They found the road leading to the Warden empty. They passed not another living thing along the way. The nocturnal creatures, human and otherwise, had already retired for the day, and those more at home in the light were yet to rouse themselves. This surprised Donald. He expected to see signs suggesting that the Gotroxians would also be trying to animate the Warden, but perhaps they did not know about the scroll.
They came to the unoccupied gatehouse where they made their contribution for admission the day before. A sign hung on the side saying, Closed for the Evening. Donald glanced briefly at it as they silently snuck by.
Before long, they stood before the Warden. The small amount of light from the stars reflected off the glossy surface of the surrounding canyon walls and partially illuminated the large black monument. It greedily refused to reflect any of it back.
“Now I think we just have to wait for dawn,” Donald said as much to himself as to his companions. “It shouldn’t be long.”
Kwestor took a brief look at the sky. “In about half an hour,” he said.
“Good, plenty of time.”
Donald handed the vellum and paper sheets he carried to Muce and then opened the cloth bag.
“I had these made in Barter’s Forge,” he said, drawing out some folded bits of red felt. “According to the scroll, I’ll need to wear them.”
He shook out the bits of cloth and put them on.
“What do you think?”
On his head, rested a conical red felt hat with a little ball at the tip, and on his right hand, he wore a matching glove.
“You don’t want to know,” Kwestor replied.
“I think they look just like the things Inkhar and Lomar wore in that picture I told you about,” Muce said.
“That is the idea,” said the prince. “I even had them blessed by a priest of the Faith to make sure they would reflect the auras of the fairy spirits. He assured me they would.”
Donald’s heart began to race. The minutes leading to dawn stretched for a subjective eternity while his mind considered an endless list of possibilities. The fear plaguing him most, and an occasionally repeated nightmare, had him facing the Warden, succeeding in his attempt at animation, and not being able to control it. If this happened, he might inadvertently create an even greater threat. What if he unleashed an unstoppable terror? Still, he must risk it. He could not allow such a weapon to be used against Westgrove.
After what felt like eons of anxious reflection, Donald noticed the first touch of a new crimson sunrise. Decision point. No more time for fears or doubts.
Trying to shake off the last of his uncertainty, he stepped forward, cleared his throat, and in a croaked voice began.
“Warden, hear our humble plea.”
“Louder,” whispered Muce, behind him. “It says it has to be loud enough for stone to hear.”
Donald cleared his throat again. He must do this for his father’s kingdom and for the people of Westgrove. It was his duty as a prince. Another inner voice reminded him it would also be his chance to be a hero people would write songs and stories about, but he tried to deny that this was important.
Standing as straight and stiff as the great black monument before him, and in a voice as clear and as strong as a great bell, he recited the spell he had memorized from the scroll.
“Warden, hear our humble plea
Listen please we beg of thee
Our need is great as it can be
Hearken to us, Warden!
I come at the appointed time
And speak to thee the magic rhyme
With body pure and thoughts sublime
Listen to me, Warden
I release thee from the stone
To become of blood and bone
And follow as the Masters shown
I summon forth the Warden!”
 
; Donald held his breath. The great black monolith stood its ground refusing to so much as acknowledge his presence, much less answer his summons.
“Maybe you have to do it naked,” Muce whispered, breaking the silence.
“What?”
The young notso held the prince’s translation of the patched vellum scroll in his hand. “It says here, Naked to the Warden’s love. Maybe that means you have to do it without any clothes on.”
“Let me see that!” The prince snatched the paper from his companion’s hand.
“No. That’s just a poetic way to say you have to be sincere. It can’t literally mean without any clothes because it also says you have to have this silly hat and glove, for the gods’ sake. How can you be naked wearing a hat and a glove?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what it says, and what you did before didn’t work. You sounded real good, though, Your Highness. It was really impressive.”
“Uh, thanks. What do you think, Kwestor?” asked Donald.
“You still don’t want to know. But if you’re going to try anything else, you’ll need to do it soon. Dawn doesn’t last that long.”
The prince turned his eyes to the horizon and the creeping light of dawn. “But it should have worked!” he protested. “Are you sure today is the autumnal equinox, Kwestor?”
“Quite certain.”
“And it’s obviously dawn.”
“Obviously.”
“And I am a prince by blood.”
“Yes, I don’t think there is any doubt about that. Your mother isn’t the type.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I’ve got the stupid hat and glove.”
Donald took another look at the scraps of vellum. “Conscience good,” he read. “I’m a man of good conscience, aren’t I?”
“As humanity is judged, I’d have to agree,” answered the scout.
“And I’m a… I mean, I’ve never, uh, you know, been with…”
“I believe you fulfill that requirement too, Your Highness.”
“Damn!” That’s got to be it then.”
After a minute of frenzied activity involving buckles, belts, and buttons, the prince stood literally naked to the Warden’s love with the notable exception of one felt glove and a silly red hat with a ball on the end.
Feeling extremely self-conscious, with his nipples hardening and his scrotum shrinking in the chill morning mountain air, he recited the spell again, louder than before.
As soon as he finished, he heard a low rumble from the direction of the monument. Then he heard a voice.
“What are you doing here?” it asked, in the language of the stoutfolk of Gotrox.
Donald’s jaw dropped, his gaze fixed on the huge black figure of the Warden. If he still wore his trousers, he would have made them a little more soiled than they were before.
Muce stared in fascination at the impassive stone face, searching for movement.
Kwestor scanned the base. Emerging from behind the structure, he saw the cleaning lady they met the day before, her pushcart rumbling across the pavement in front of her.
“We’re not open yet. Come back in an hour.”
“Wh-Wh-What?” The prince’s gaze remained frozen several feet too high to have noticed the cleaning woman.
“Whoa!” I suppose you know you’re stark naked, Stretch.”
He finally realized where the voice came from and to whom it belonged. “Oh my gods!” he exclaimed in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I mean, I thought I had to… I didn’t think anyone else was here.”
“Uh, right. It’s no big deal to me, Stretch, but I’d think it’d be a might cold for one of you skinny, hairless tallfolk types to be prancing around in his birthday suit. Is this some kind of rite of passage or religious ritual or something?”
“What? Uh, no. I was just trying to, well, I have this spell here and I was…” He scrambled with his clothes, which did not seem to want to go back on as easily as they had come off.
“He was trying to raise the Warden,” Kwestor explained, in his halting Gotroxian.
“He was trying to do what?”
“He thought that if he recited a rhyme he found on an old piece of vellum, the Warden would obey him.”
She eyed the old scout incredulously, and then glanced at the prince buttoning his shirt. “And that’s why he was naked?”
“He thought it would help.”
It took a few moments for her to put this all together. “So he thought if he took off his clothes and recited a rhyme, the Warden would grant him a wish?”
“Not exactly. Actually, he expected it to come to life and do whatever he wanted it to do.”
She looked appraisingly at the prince who, now fully clothed, stood before her comparing the scroll with his translation to see if he could figure out what he did wrong.
“He does know it’s made out of stone, doesn’t he?” she asked.
“I did mention that to him.”
“And he still expected that—”
“But I did exactly what it says on the scroll!” Donald interrupted, holding the stitched vellum sheet out before him.
The cleaning woman took a step back when the prince approached her.
“It’s all right,” Kwestor assured her. “He’s harmless.”
Donald handed her the scroll. Her eyes stayed fixed on the disturbed young man as she took it.
“See?” he implored. “It’s all right there!”
She examined the sheet. Perhaps her reading skills were not very good, or maybe the ornate script and archaic language gave her some trouble.
Eventually comprehension happened. Dawn broke over the horizon and on the face of the diminutive cleaning woman. She began to chortle. “Oh you poor silly boy.” And then she laughed.
Chapter Fourteen